


Since feeling is first

by anxiousAnarchist



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: (cyclonus and tailgate use she/her), M/M, Non Canon Pronouns, dominus is sir not appearing in this fic but there's substantial discussion of him, no actual poems created in the process of this fic, poetry as a hazardous attempt at self understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiousAnarchist/pseuds/anxiousAnarchist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Layers" by Minimus Ambus</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since feeling is first

"Everything comes clear when you put the comma back one place." 

\-- Tom Stoppard, _The Invention of Love_

 

 

 

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” says Megatron when you (hesitantly, awkwardly) share this small fact about yourself one evening. 

“We _were_ at war for four million years,” you say. 

“All knowledge affords one the chance to leverage said knowledge against one’s enemies,” says Megatron. “I attempted to never overlook little details, they can be useful. Even, for example, the fact that Ultra Magnus writes poetry.”

“Ultra Magnus doesn’t,” you say. You’re both Minimus and Magnus, who are the same people and entirely different at the same time, but there’s some things that you cannot do as Magnus. Ultra Magnus is -- was, you suppose -- a figure of respect and respectability. Not of florid flailing attempts at artistry.

“But Minimus Ambus does?” asks Megatron. Minimus Ambus might be the sort of person who wrote poetry, but he was also the sort of person who knew to keep that to himself.

“Everyone knowing that I’m Minimus has allowed me to er, how does Rodimus put it, ‘loosen up’ a little. Minimus Ambus doesn’t have to be the same sort of example that Ultra Magnus has to be, and so I’ve allowed myself. . .” you trail off. Megatron’s looking intently at the datapad with your poetry on it. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak to anyone about this.”

“May I read it?”

You try to convince yourself that you didn’t care if Megatron hated your poetry, but you can’t manage it. Maybe you shouldn’t. The fact remains, however, that you do.  “I suppose.”

Something like a century passes. You look away as he reads your work and stare at the wall and wonder what the Magnus of two years ago would say if he saw you like this. What the rest of the crew would say if they could see you now. Nothing flattering, that's for sure.

“It’s not very good,” you say before he can say anything.

“Well --” he sets the datapad down. “It’s a start.”

 “Oh dear,” you say, glad suddenly for the Magnus armor in a way you haven’t been for a while, the way it insulates you from the embarrassments of Minimus’s life. 

“It’s earnest,” he says. “Which is a good beginning.”

 “Painfully so,” you say. You want to take the poem away, but it isn’t as if you can make it so he never read it in the first place. Sometimes you understand the appeal of creating a time travel machine a little too well.

“I have some suggestions, if you’d like them?” he says.  

“Please,” you say.

“Unfortunately, Rodimus's advice to loosen up might help here as well. Don't tell him I said that. While adherence to strict rules of grammar and punctuation matters in some cases, in poetry the rules gain a certain amount of fluidity. Alterations that aren't strictly _correct_ might help the work flow better. Perhaps, for one, you could move this semicolon here, you see?” says Megatron, indicating the punctuation. “While that might not seem to change much, it adds a certain. . .” 

Something stutters inside your central processor, because his suggestion feels so entirely correct. “Yes,” you say. “Yes, that’s right.”

 You glance at him just as he’s looking at you, hold his gaze for a second too long. There’s something there, something beyond the fragile mutual respect formed over the months, but you’re afraid to probe at it.  Megatron clears his throat. “Thank you for showing this to me,” he says, laying a careful hand on your arm. Both of you stay like that for a beat longer, before looking away.

 You grab your poetry off the table. “I have to go,” you say. “Immediately.”

“As do I,” he says, standing up rather fast. “There are many urgent matters I must attend to, far away from here, right now.”

 You flee the scene.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, when you’re in a particularly foul mood, you pick up one of Dom’s volumes of poetry and read it start to finish. His precise language, witty verse, the damn rhyme schemes: his poems display a comfortable competence with the entirety of the form that you know you’ll never manage. You weren’t built for such things.

 You flip a page idly. You’ve read this poem before, all of them before, a hundred times. This particular volume was written during one of Dom's odd religious bends, which makes it sound less sincere than some of his other poetry to you, but at least you can be certain none of it's about Rewind. Reading his love poetry seems a little invasive nowadays. 

“Oh, is that _Primal Sonnets_?" asks Cyclonus. "I despise that book.” You jump in your seat. You hadn’t seen her approach.  She frowns -- well, her frown deepens at least. “My apologies if I’m intruding.” 

“Sorry, you just startled me a little,” you say. “You don’t usually. . . talk to many people, when you’re here.”

“We’re just stopping by before we go to movie night!” says Tailgate, drifting behind her.

“My hatred of that man’s poetry is great enough to overcome any sort of reticence I might have about striking up casual conversation,” says Cyclonus. Tailgate pokes her leg. “My apologies. I’m speaking about your brother, I should be more delicate.”

“No, it’s quite alright,” you say. It’s nice to talk to people who don’t think Dom carved Luna-1 and set it in the sky himself. “I didn’t really think anyone on board would be very conversant with his work.”

“Conversant with his work,” mutters Cyclonus. “I’ll say.”

“Cyclonus used to write poetry and publish it and stuff. Back before, you know,” says Tailgate.   

“I knew Dominus on a professional basis,” says Cyclonus.  “Actually, I think I ended up in one of his poems -- not by name of course -- one of the incredibly long ones, the name escapes me.”

“I thought you liked epic poems,” says Tailgate. You’re not paying very much attention. 

“I like _epic_ poems, not very long lists of everyone who has ever disagreed with me presented in the _form_ of a poem.”

“I’m surprised you still remember something like that,” you say.

“He was a hard man to forget. He made sure of it.”   

Someone else, then, who may only think of you as Dominus Ambus’s spark brother. The permanent antecedent to your name: Dominus Ambus’s spark brother, Minimus Ambus of Ambustus Minor. You miss a little the way identity operated when you were solely Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Your name in front of that which defined you, that which defined you being something based on your own accomplishments. Now you’re the duly appointed enforcer of precisely nothing (save _basic civility_ on the Lost Light, save _reasonableness_ in the wake of Rodimus and Megatron’s captaincy).

A jab at your leg interrupts your train of thought. It’s Tailgate. “You were getting the broody look,” says Tailgate. “That’s how Cyclonus looks when she broods.”

“I do not brood,” says Cyclonus.  “Anyway, there was a rumor once that Dominus poisoned a publisher for distributing his works without securing permission first. The publisher in question didn’t die, but he did publish several pamphlets on the incident.” 

“Dominus always argued that wasn’t true,” you say, half remembering the incident. It’s been a few million years, the memory’s hazy. “I don’t _think_ it was true, at least.”

“Hmm. Well, it was only a rumor. Either way, I was never fond of the poems themselves. Including those,” she says, gesturing again to the book you’re reading. “Rhyme schemes were a little too overbearing. ‘And all my pleasures are like yesterday;/I dare not move my dim eyes any way,’ it grates after a while.”

You don’t mention that everything seems to grate Cyclonus after a while. You think she might be trying to be friendly, as if she senses that you might not _want_ someone to speak of Dominus in the same way Rewind does (though you can’t blame him), in the same way history does. “I never liked this one very much either,” you say, and it’s a relief.

“Cyclonus, we’re gonna be late for the movie,” says Tailgate, tugging on her arm.

“Let me know if you’d like to borrow a few books of poems,” says Cyclonus. “I feel like there must be something. . . better. . . that would suit your tastes. Perhaps read some of Megatron’s early works. They’re quite good.” 

“I know,” you say.

 

* * *

  

Sitting in Ten’s room, looking at the different figurines he’s made, you’re struck with how incongruous this picture would look to anyone else. Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, playing dolls with a former Legislator. Dominus Ambus’s spark brother, Minimus Ambus, admiring the handiwork of his Ambus Test failing friend. Minimus, always small, attempting to become smaller, reduce his irreducible self to something that would fit to words on a screen or else something that couldn’t be as easily seen.

You line the little Minimus and Magnus figures up neatly. They really are quite lovely in their construction.

“Ten!” says Ten, waving the datapad you’d brought for him in front of you to indicate he’s finished with it. Ever since you found out he was the one responsible for the sudden disappearance of your poetry you’ve brought him whatever new things you’ve written. Even if Ten doesn’t get much out of it in terms of quality content, at the very least he appreciates the sense that you’re sharing with him as he’s sharing with you.

“How was it?” you ask. 

He gives you the thumbs up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I wasn’t sure if it was too. . . mawkish.”

Ten holds up a new figurine. It’s Megatron. He tilts his head towards the datapad, as if saying “was this about. . .?”

 “Oh,” you say, fidgeting with the Ultra Magnus figurine.  “I was hoping it wasn’t that obvious.” 

Ten pats your shoulder. “Ten.”

He sets the Megatron figurine next to the irreducible Minimus. You should never have started writing.

  

* * *

 

The truth is: you’re right, and not letting anyone know where the spark of you lies is the best way to ensure your survival. If you’d told Tyrest more, where would you be? He would have crushed more than your reducible head. Megatron of all people shouldn’t be allowed this glimpse of what and how you think.

But Megatron-of-all-people is also the Megatron who helps organize the duty rosters and who remembers what fonts you like best. Megatron was the leader of the Decepticons and he spent a long evening last week with you commiserating about Rodimus. (Primus bless Rodimus, but he really is a handful.) The Megatron of the war and the Megatron of the Lost Light are different people. They’re the same person. 

You can relate. 

 You send a revised copy of your last poem to him after a few fraught hours fussing over line breaks. He sends it back a little later with a few suggestions marked in red, but at the bottom of the message he’s written “Much improved, Minimus. Very good.” That makes you feel -- well. Things the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord wouldn’t feel.

Good thing you’re not that person any more.  You send him another poem, call it “Understanding," erase the title, write the title again. If you're going to humiliate yourself, you might as well do it plainly. You just have to hope he _does_ understand. You wait.

 

* * *

   
There’s a knock on the door of your room. You open it before you can lose your nerve.

 “Oh, uh, Minimus," says Megatron, taken aback, you think, at the sight of you outside the Magnus armor. He loses his footing on the sentence. "I wasn’t expecting -- I’m sorry to intrude, but --”

“What brings you here?” you ask.

“Er, well, yes, I was just wondering if you meant to send me that last one, and apologize if I’ve somehow invaded your privacy by reading it,” he says. “Though I. . . quite liked it.”

“Please don’t lie about the quality of my artistic endeavors,” you say.

 “It was an improvement,” says Megatron. “There’s many things I think you could change, or improve, your skills are still extremely rough and unformed, but I _did_ enjoy it.”

“I’m not very good with words,” you confess. “Poetic expressions, at least. That was always more of Dominus’s milieu.”

 “I think it’s admirable,” says Megatron. “Words come easily to some of us, but not to all. Continuing to try, despite setbacks -- that means more than a hundred flawless lines.”

It’s something, to be admired. “It was about --” 

“Yes?” says Megatron. 

You can’t get the words right. What was it Swerve said about poetry? People trying to say something by hiding it behind something else. But this was a double-exposure, saying something by hiding it behind something you’d attempted to hide.

"Yes," you say. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to lesbianchromedome on tumblr, from whom I think I almost certainly stole the idea of Cyclonus also writing pre-war poetry, and from whom i definitely stole the Donne-Dominus comparison. 
> 
> _Primal Sonnets_ is a reference to _Holy Sonnets_ by John Donne, the lines Cyclonus recites are lifted directly from one of the sonnets, the one that begins "Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?" The poem Cyclonus is talking about is a reference to _The Dunciad_ by Alexander Pope (it really is just "here's all these people who disagree with me, I'm gonna talk shit for a couple hundred lines), the story about Dominus poisoning a publisher is also about Alexander Pope and its inclusion in this fic has a lot to do with the fact that I like bringing up as much as possible the part where Alexander Pope comma Famous Poet Dude totally poisoned a man with intent towards grievous bodily harm/murder. 
> 
> The epigraph's from _The Invention of Love_ , which is a play about the British poet A.E. Housman's tragic love life and also about editing the classics. 
> 
> The title is from the e.e. cummings poem of the same name. Minimus Ambus would almost definitely hate e.e. cummings, tho really I think cummings and Minimus both are concerned with the particulars of punctuation & so on, so there's common ground. Sorry Minimus.


End file.
